Christopher And The Clockmakers Part 15

"My goodness!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed he. "I never thought of it! Why under the sun didn't you speak up, laddie?"

"I didn't like to," replied the boy with diffidence. "I was afraid it might bother somebody."

"Not an atom. On the contrary Ebenezer would have been proud as a peac.o.c.k to show them off. You could have been wandering round with him while I was fussing over Seventeen as well as not. It's a pity."

So genuine was the regret in the clockmaker's tone that Christopher hastened to add:

"Oh, it's all right, Mr. McPhearson. Please don't think of it again. I oughtn't to have mentioned it. It doesn't really matter, you know."

Still his companion was not satisfied.

"We might go back," suggested he.

"No, no! It will make you late at the store. Maybe you'll be going up there again some other day and can take me along."

"I'm afraid not," replied McPhearson, ruefully. "At least I hope not. If Seventeen behaves herself as I expect she will, I shall not be needed.

Well! Well! I am sorry. It wasn't very thoughtful of me."

They walked on and hailing a bus climbed aboard it.

The vehicle was crowded and they made their way in with difficulty, jostling aside its closely packed occupants as they entered.

"Lots of these people will be leaving at the next stop," McPhearson remarked. "They always do."

The prediction was true. At the next corner the pa.s.sengers poured out, leaving the seats only thinly filled.

As Christopher sank into a seat and drew a long breath of relief his eye wandered idly over those sitting near him, and a stranger opposite arrested his attention.

[Ill.u.s.tration: What was it that rendered the figure so familiar?

_Page_ 103.]

He was a working man shabbily clothed, and wearing a dingy brown ulster and slouch hat. Between his feet was a much worn leather bag which obviously contained tools. His hair was gray and so was the grizzled beard that partially concealed his features. But it was none of these that held the boy's attention. Something in the way the fellow's collar was pulled up and his hat pulled down; something in the gesture with which he moved his hands to turn his paper aroused a vague memory.

Fascinated, the lad watched. What was it that rendered the figure so familiar? He had never seen the man before in his life--he was certain of that. And yet, had he? And if so, where? What was the haunting a.s.sociation that held him spellbound and made it impossible for him to remove his gaze from this person whose features were almost entirely screened from view behind the outspread pages of the morning _Herald_?

Christopher looked away. Of course he didn't know the fellow. Why stare at him? But do what he would, back came his gaze to the same brown-ulstered traveler.

Then the bus lurched, stopped suddenly, and he knew! The man had lowered his paper, and as he turned his head to look out, the boy saw on his right cheek, almost concealed by hat and whiskers, a telltale scar.

The shock of the discovery was so great that it was with difficulty Chris checked a cry of surprise. Yes, it was the hero of the ring adventure--there could be no possible doubt of it. And yet, after all, was it? This person's hair was white and his whiskers too; he was shabby and wore spectacles. The lad began to doubt the conclusion to which he had leaped.

It couldn't be Stuart! A diamond robber would not be journeying about in an electric bus in broad daylight. Such a notion was absurd. Probably it was merely a mannerism that had suggested him.

Nevertheless Christopher continued to regard him attentively, studying the white hand with its long, slender fingers. It was a very clean hand for such a poorly dressed individual to boast. It did not look at all in keeping with the clumsy boots, the frayed trousers, the worn ulster, the battered satchel. It did not appear ever to have done a stroke of work in its life.

Suppose the hand was genuine, and the rest only a disguise? Suppose in reality this was Stuart, the criminal for whom both the Chicago and New York police were searching? Oh, it wasn't likely--it could not be likely. Why should a boy of his age hope to track down a thief when agencies such as these had failed? It was preposterous.

Yet, notwithstanding the argument, the doubt would persist. What if, after all, this was Stuart? Yet if it were, what should he do?

If he began to whisper his suspicious to McPhearson, the thief might overhear and, put on his guard, leave the vehicle; and should he call the conductor to his aid, the man would in all probability be unwilling to believe such a tale and refuse to act. Moreover, perhaps he had no authority to do so anyway.

Poor Christopher! His heart beat until it seemed as if the stranger opposite must hear its throbbing and take warning. If only it were possible to alight from the bus without exciting attention, maybe he and McPhearson could get an officer. He sadly wanted somebody's help and advice. The adventure was one he felt to be too big for him to handle alone.

Nevertheless were he even to suggest leaving the car he knew his companion would not only be surprised but would instantly voice aloud his consternation, and then, of course, the man behind the newspaper would hear.

Still, something must be done. The bus was whizzing on down the avenue, and at any moment his prey might take flight.

A mad resolve formed itself in his mind.

"I think we'll have to get out," he said suddenly. "I don't feel well."

McPhearson wheeled on him, amazed.

"What's the matter?"

"My--my--breakfast, I guess. Can you stop the car?"

"Do you mean you want to get out right here?"

"Yes. I'm dizzy. If I can get some air--"

"Not going to faint away, are you?" queried the Scotchman in consternation.

"I--no--I--guess not."

The kind old clockmaker slipped an arm about his shoulders.

"We'll get out at the next stop, sonny. Too bad you feel mean. It's probably the lurching and b.u.mping of this infernal vehicle. You'll be all right when you get outside."

Without attracting anything more than pa.s.sing notice, they found themselves in the street and saw the bus disappear down the avenue.

"Feel better?" interrogated McPhearson, anxiously.

"I'm all right. There's not a thing the matter with me. The trouble is that the man opposite us was the chap who pinched that ring from Hollings."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure. At any rate, it's worth tipping off headquarters. Where's there a telephone?"

"There's a drug store just across the street, Christopher. But hold on!

What do you mean to do?"

The Scotchman's mind was at best a slow-moving machine, and now it appeared to be too stunned to move at all. Sensing that explanation and argument would delay him, Christopher dashed ahead, the clockmaker panting at his heels.

Fortunately he knew the number, for he had talked with the inspector before. Fortunately, too, he had a nickel in his pocket. Therefore he called headquarters, admonishing the operator to make haste.

A second later a reply came singing over the wire.

"Is Mr. Corrigan, the inspector, there?"